player ♚ lrh

34 - distraction

Luke had a lot of anger, and not many outlets.

He only had one, to be exact, and it was currently destroying the skin that stretched over his knuckles, reopening raw wounds and replacing them with deeper, far more painful ones.

Even so, he could barely feel it. Luke had conditioned himself beyond belief, and the hand wraps glued to his palms and fingers were more of a barrier than he was used to, for the luxury didn't exist when he was bare-knuckled at the club. But as for what pain he did feel, he welcomed. It was a distraction anyways. That was the point. The whole reason he started fighting in the first place.

A distraction. That's what he needed. Something to keep the inevitable out of sight, and, in return—out of mind.

The black bag in front of him was doing a fairly decent job. The leather was dented, and the unmistakable sound of metal hitting metal could be heard as the chain strained against the hook. He'd been going at it for at least an hour now, each jab chasing the one before it, like he was competing with himself. And in a way, he was.

Luke was mad at himself. He should've told her, but he didn't.

He had every chance to do it. When he crawled back into bed that night—or morning, perhaps—he could've told her what Ashton said, but he didn't. And then the day went on; they spent it together, the whole day, and still he said nothing.

He didn't want to cause her any stress. And he certainly hadn't wanted to upset her, either. So, Luke did what he did best; he kept it to himself, burden and all, letting it weigh heavily on his shoulders and his alone.

What would he have said, anyways? Good morning, your piece of shit ex-boyfriend probably told Calum that we're together, so I might have to kill him before he kills me. Luke grunted, fists striking the bag a bit harder. Oh, and I'm sure Cole and Michael will be happy to add on. That okay with you?

And yeah, maybe he didn't have to put it that way, and maybe Calum didn't actually know anything, but who was he kidding? Three-out-of-four of his girlfriend's best friends hated his guts. There was no sugarcoating that.

He and Elise had never discussed it. They'd never sat down, come to terms with the idea that they couldn't stay a secret from everyone forever, that eventually the three boys she called her best friends would have to find out, one way or another. Obviously, he'd thought about it for himself, but it never ended well in his head and he couldn't bare to share his concerns with her.

What if they made her choose? And what if she didn't choose him?

He struck the bag. Instead of answering, he hit the leather over and over and over. Somehow, the latter still hurt less.

Always the ever-pessimist, Luke grew angry again. Well, fuck, he was breathing heavy, jaw clenching as he fought to keep it in. Just, fuck.

There wasn't much else he was able to think. Even if Calum knew nothing, and he was assuming the worst—which was a very real possibility—he couldn't stay in the dark much longer. None of them could. Every punch he threw was confirmation. He was fucked either way.

And yet, even in the midst of it all, there was a tiny, minuscule part of him that held onto the remaining few things that possibly weren't so fucked. At least not yet. There certainly weren't many to begin with, but they existed.

Cassie, for one, was something. At least he could take solace in the fact that one person in his girl's life actually bothered to give him the benefit of the doubt—only because she doesn't know why they hate you so much, the cynical part of Luke pointed out, leading him to throw yet another sharp, quick jab to the leather.